Softly Shouting

  Buoyancy   The week after the funeral, Mrs Murray decided to learn how to swim. She had wanted to learn to swim for many years and now, after the difficult time she’d had with the sudden and violent death of her husband, it was the right moment. When she was younger it wasn’t thought necessary for girls to be able to swim and after her marriage there wasn’t much time for such frivolous pursuits.   Besides, the late Mr Murray didn’t approve of swimming women.   There were a lot of things that the late Mr Murray frowned upon: spending money, foreign foods, liberated women and too much merriment in general.   When he passed away, Mrs Murray shed some tears for all the good times they’d had and then proceeded with her life.   She had much to catch up with, such as learning how to swim. The first hurdle was the purchase of a swimming costume.   Mrs Murray, although not used to fancy foods, had eaten well and the trim figure she’d had when she got ma...

  So l folded the contract and hid it at the back of the wardrobe, deep in a coat pocket. I forgot about it, sort of anyway for fifteen years. But recently I found a post-it note on my computer screen saying: It’s pay-back time! My world crumbled around me. See, I had made a pact with the Devil. He had kept his part of the promise, and he was reminding me that I now had to keep mine.   But how could I? It would destroy me and destroy my family. I did not know what to do and where to turn. Of course it was my own stupid fault for being greedy. I told my wife. She said: ‘Just go on doing what you are doing, dear. It’s fine.’ She wasn’t really listening. If she knew everything, she would certainly leave me. Thinking of what I was supposed to do, I went to the local police station. The duty sergeant looked at me and said: ‘Come back when a crime has been committed, pal, OK? We are busy enough! I went to the local council.   The social worker sat behind a desk pi...

Donna stands at the railings on the promenade looking across the sandy beach.       ‘Hold on,’ the photographer says, ‘now look at me. Smile! Flirt with the camera.’        Donna hears the shutters clicking away. She smiles this way and that, creases her eyes when the reflector shines light on her face. She is cold. The shoot seems to go on for ages.       ‘Right, that’s it, folks,’ the photographer finally says. ‘That’s fine, everybody. Thanks.’       The assistants are tidying up the equipment and Donna darts into the tiny yellow caravan set on the promenade. She has brought a flask with hot tea and needs a cuppa. It is only April; the wind has been blowing a hoolie and, being in front of the camera, she has to look as if she enjoys herself. Her smile is frozen on her face and the crocheted jumper which looks so good in the photos does little to keep her warm.        The cara...

Back after a short (too short) holiday in France. My iPad refused to speak to me and I found out that I can actually do nearly everything without it. So there... A Parrot (Papagaai in Dutch or Perroquet in French) is one of the writing prompts I jotted down in my little notebook. Can parrots keep secrets? This poster was on a lamp post opposite a closed joke shop. There must be a story somewhere in there...